Macchiato
by nomnomemma
Summary: Their first meeting, if it could even be called that, starts with coffee. Follows Chloe and Beca living and working in London, and how their mutual love of coffee begins to fuel something more than just a working relationship. AU Bechloe. Rated M for future sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

As someone who works in PR, the relationship between journos and PR's is always something that's kinda intrigued me. Hence, this story, where Beca (a journalist) and Chloe (a PR graduate) meet on the bustling streets of London.

I've been dying to write something about this pairing for fucking forever, so I've been writing this first chapter over the past couple of weeks on my morning commute into work (which is not an easy thing to do when you're sat next to nosy passengers who try to read whatever it is you're doing over your shoulder, believe me). This will be a multi-chapter fic (how long it'll be I'm not entirely sure of yet), so please do bear with me whilst I'm updating/adding chapters - I'll try my best to get stuff done asap!

Disclaimer, as always: I [sadly] don't own the Pitch Perfect characters, though the content within this fic is 100% mine.

Happy reading!

* * *

_Chloe is sugar. Sweet and satisfying, and completely addictive._

_She's a cappuccino sprinkled with cocoa powder; bitter espresso diluted with frothed milk and saturated with sugar. She's darling and cheerful, and oh-so obliviously so, twenty-four-seven; a super-charged, red-headed bundle of energy running on a seemingly never-ending sugar high._

_Beca is the complete opposite. She's the coarse coffee grounds drowning in scalding water; dark and broody and bitter._

_She's highly strung and temperamental, and even worse so if she doesn't drink at least three shots of the strongest, highest caffeine content coffee she can find. And where Chloe is open and inviting, Beca is awkward and grumpy and closed off, with an absolute hatred of anyone who heaps spoonful's of sugar into their coffee (because sugar in coffee is for pussies)._

_And London, the vibrant megalopolis of people, ideas and frenetic energy, with a swirling flurry of burning heat and perfect timing, is the catalyst that brings them together._

* * *

"Can I have, uh... A..."

The line had moved a lot quicker than she thought it would, and the red-headed woman wasn't expecting to be served so quickly.

She stumbles over her words, her mind scrambling to come up with a drink that she actually wants whilst her eyes scan the chalkboard of offers behind the barista. She can't make her mind up between a latte and a cappuccino, and she can't really believe she's getting all flustered between choosing between foamed or steamed milk, but it's her first day at her new job and it's _really_ important she gets her day off to a good start.

The barista rolls his eyes at her pauses, and the suit waiting in line behind her sighs loudly and obnoxiously. It's 8:30am on a Monday morning and half of London appears to want their coffee right here, right now before the working day begins; neither of them have time for her hesitations.

"I'll just have a latte, thanks." She adds in a small smile, to apologise for taking so long and because this barista looks as though he could seriously do with some light in his life, but her smile probably just comes across as naive to the ever-judgemental barista.

The suit behind her mutters something along the lines of "finally", and drops in another over-exaggerated sigh, just so that Chloe is fully aware of how important he is and how he needs to be elsewhere _right now_.

She pays for her drink in change (and apparently this is another no-no, as the barista's eyes once again roll towards the ceiling in an over exaggerated and downright rude manner, because clearly counting out six fifty pence pieces is just too time consuming during the rush hour) and thirty seconds later a steaming paper cup of caffeinated milk is hurriedly placed on the counter in front of her before the barista turns to serve the impatient suit-clad Londoner waiting in line.

Chloe graciously picks up the cup and rakes her eyes across the gritty, coffee-stained counter, fully aware that she should be moving along now before she's holding up the line any longer. Not spotting what she needs, she clears her throat and pipes up again.

"Hey, sorry, um... Do you have any sugar?"

She can feel an angry exhalation of air brush against her neck from the businessman behind her, a "fuckin' tourists" emerging angrily from under his breath, but she refuses to let this man get to her. The middle aged barista looks as though he'd much rather strangle Chloe than answer to her request, but nevertheless he points a finger at a condiment station situated a couple of feet away from the serving counter, and Chloe thanks him politely, plastering a charming smile on her face before turning to the pissed off commuter behind her.

Really, it's a pity that he's got such a shitty attitude, because this man is drop dead gorgeous, with a strong set jaw and a fitted suit that happens to show off how much he works out. And maybe if he wasn't such an ass to her, Chloe would probably be blushing and apologising, but instead she offers up her biggest, cringiest smile at the young man.

"Oh my _god_, I am _so_ sorry about that" she drawls, over-emphasising her accent and elongating the vowels even further in a way that she knows will annoy the man even more.

He scowls at her, tensing his jaw and taking several deep breaths in a manner that only makes Chloe shake her head at his immaturity before she turns and heads towards the condiment station knowing that she's successfully irritated him even further.

At the condiment station, she hums as she stirs two sugars into her coffee, swirling the wooden stirrer through her drink before she selects a plastic lid and pops it in place on top of her cup. Her smile fades slightly before she finally takes a long-awaited sip, the overly-sweetened milky drink flooding her taste buds and instantly working its magic on her jittery first-day nerves.

She reaffixes a smirk as the handsome stranger passes her with his coffee in hand (and a not so handsome scowl painted on his face as he spots Chloe). She ignores the way his face lights up once he spots another young woman in the coffee shop and she misses the cheerful "morning boss" he exclaims to the brunette who is waiting in line for her coffee. She instead focuses her attention on chewing at the inside of her lip, a nervous habit she's only recently picked up since moving to London.

And really she's surprised she's actually nervous, because Chloe Beale has never been nervous about anything in her life before. She's fearless, boisterous, won't-take-no-for-an-answer Chloe Beale, and nerves just aren't her thing _at all. _Hell, she's even performed in front of thousands onstage in New York with her collegiate acapella group, so she doesn't really understand why she's so nervous about a silly first day at a new job.

She's been dreaming about this city, and this job, for years; this is what she's been waiting for. This is the result of countless evenings spent hunched over a computer and textbook in the library, her bloodstream saturated with Red Bull. The countless assignments, exams, the whole 'leaving her friends and family in Georgia and moving to a quiet seaside town in England to complete a three-year degree' ordeal… This is what she's been working towards for most of her life. And she's excited, because she's finally getting exactly what she's wanted, but god, Chloe Beal is actually nervous for the first time in her life.

* * *

Beca's alarm goes off at seven, but she's already been up for a good fifteen minutes before it, so she leaves it to whine it's alarmingly irritating tone in the bedroom whilst she towel-dries her brunette locks in the kitchen, fully naked, eyeing up the coffee machine as she does so.

The fucking thing was supposed to have her coffee ready by the time she's exited the shower, the wonderfully rich scent of strong Italian slow-roast supposed to be permeating every square inch of her apartment, but this morning there's nothing. The brunette grumbles to herself as she thumbs the on/off button a couple of times before she slaps the top of the machine. Still nothing. She hasn't got the time for this on a Monday fucking morning, and she mentally curses the inventor of the Keurig and their blatant inability to make a coffee machine that's up to the task of catering for Beca Mitchell's excessive coffee consumption habits.

She briefly considers going coffee-less until she reaches work, but she needs her morning fix right now god fucking damn it, and that means she needs to leave _now_ if she has any hopes of buying a coffee before 9am in London.

With that, she storms to the bedroom, and she's almost surprised at how sluggish she is at this time in the morning without her usual triple shot of slow roast pumping its way through her body. Her alarm is still squawking its irritating high-pitched _'rise and shine fucker, I know you didn't get enough sleep so I'm here to rub it in your face'_ bleep, and Beca can already feel her outrageously short temper begin to snap. She's tempted to throw the fucking thing against the wall, but that would be her second broken alarm clock in a month and she's pretty sure her therapist would disapprove of her blatant lack of anger management if she did. She decides to spare the offending item and unceremoniously dumps her damp towel on top of the ugly little chunk of plastic, muffling it's taunting tone instantly.

"You're safe... For today, asshole"

She turns to her wardrobe instead, which thankfully hasn't chosen to piss her off this morning, and yanks it open.

She pulls tight black jeans and a pale grey tshirt from the wardrobe; coupled with heeled boots and a fitted blazer, Beca's finally perfected a look that compliments her badass-wannabe-dj-when-I-was-a-teenager-but-now-I'm-the-editor-of-the-biggest-newspaper-in-Britain-so-don't-fuck-with-me personality down to a tee.

With her trusty Macbook slipped into her bag (the 2014 Louis Vuitton designed by Sofia Coppola, naturally, because being editor with friends in all the right places and a £1.75m a year salary has its perks), and with one final glare at her pathetic excuse for a coffee machine, she leaves her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

In the elevator (Beca Mitchell has no time for fourteen sets of stairs first thing on a Monday morning thank you very much) she jabs her finger at the ground floor button, before turning and examining herself in the mirrored wall with a frown. With a tired sigh, she traces her fingertips over the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup is only just managing to conceal. She's lost count of the number of times she's still been in her office past midnight this week, and last night was no exception; god, she needs that fucking coffee _now_.

The elevator announces its arrival at the ground floor with a cheerful ping, and with one last scowl at her reflection, Beca strides through the automatic doors. She barely has the time to nod her head and offer a polite smile at the security staffing the desk of the building before she's crossed the lobby and is swept up in the daily flurry of sleepy suit-clad commuters and businessmen.

She doesn't even need to check her phone to know that she's going to be late if she stops off somewhere and buys coffee, but quite frankly the threat of no coffee is worse than being ten minutes late to the newspaper that she fucking runs. She expertly manoeuvres her way through the crowds, her face pulled into a permanent scowl as she dodges briefcases and bumbling idiots, scanning her eyes across the street ahead of her for a coffee shop oasis.

It's a ten minute walk to Kensington High Street, and whilst she passes two Starbucks' and three Costa Coffee's, Beca's determined to find a coffee solution that's a little less... mainstream (because despite selling out and working for the biggest newspaper in Britain, Beca's still an asshole when it comes to mainstream brands).

She braces herself as a flood of people emerge from High Street Kensington station, and as she's making her way through the considerably thicker sea of people she finally spots her oasis.

Caffe Concerto is tucked in between a bank and a property-letting agency. It's already got a sizeable line of customers queuing for coffee, but it's grubby and devoid of any corporate branding, and Beca's caffeine-starved body feels as though it's hit the jackpot.

The smell of freshly ground coffee hits her the second she opens the door, and she's fairly certain she's been here before (probably some time before her two year love affair with the Keurig started). She takes up a spot in the line, patiently waiting for her turn to place an order, adding a sigh to the collection in the coffee shop as she spots some tourist holding up the queue with her inability to place a speedy order.

The redhead appears to take _forever _to order, and then she pipes up again about fucking _sugar_, and god fucking damn it does she not realize that Beca's already late for work and she needs this bitch to hurry the fuck up?

Eventually the woman moves away and the line starts to inch forward, but suddenly the redhead turns around to confront the man behind her and suddenly Beca's eyes are tangled up in the redhead's tantalising golden tresses and gorgeous porcelain skin. And god, that over-exaggerated grin she offers the man behind her as she further winds him up by playing dumb is enough to cause Beca's breath to catch in her throat. She's beautiful (_and probably way too young for you you perve_, Beca mentally reminds herself), and whilst Beca's very aware of her blatant staring she surprisingly has no intentions of stopping.

Her gawking at the gorgeous redhead is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Luke, who blocks Beca's view of the stranger.

He offers up a cheerful "morning boss", and Beca realizes that he's the impatient asshole that the redhead was purposely winding up. She smirks at this, and Luke probably mistakes this as Beca being genuinely happy to see him, which is a big fucking mistake because Beca's _never_ happy to see her sports editor, no matter how jaw droppingly handsome he may be.

"Running a bit late this morning, aren't you?" He comments, hoping to draw his beautiful young boss into conversation.

Beca can barely stand to hold a conversation with Luke at work without wanting to strangle him, and she has absolutely no intention of wanting to carry one with him outside of work so she offers a small nod to his question. And thank god, Luke appears to be able to detect Beca's blatant lack of interest in a pre-work chat, and with a curt "see you at the pen", he leaves the coffee shop just as it's Beca's turn to get served.

She wastes no time in ordering her signature black coffee with an extra shot of espresso, which the barista whips up in record time for her. She nods a small 'thanks', which the barista returns as she's handed her drink, and as she turns away from the counter she spots the ever-smiling redhead still occupying the sugar station. Beca spies the stack of plastic lids at the redhead's counter, and hesitantly makes her way over just as the redhead's eyes choose to lock onto her.

She offers a smile as Beca approaches, and Beca half-heartedly tries to return it, but really she's not a smiling-at-strangers type so it probably just comes across as an awkward grimace.

The redheads eyes are glued to Beca as she scoots up to allow the shorter woman to grab a lid from the stand, and Beca can feel the temptation to tell her to piss off and mind her own business begin to flare up inside of her. She refrains, her therapists disapproving tone echoing in her ear, and instead she raises her cup to her lips, welcoming the strong bitter taste that she's been craving since the second she stepped out of bed.

"You knew that guy? The jerk who was standing behind me?"

Beca's coffee was a mere millimetre away from her lips just as the stranger decided to start up an unwanted conversation with her.

And even though she hates the guy, the redhead doesn't know that, and she's a little shocked that this complete stranger just insulted Luke right in front of her.

"Uh, yeah"

The redhead seems to smirk at Beca's limited use of words, and Beca raises her cup to her mouth once again in an attempt to take a sip of her drink, but she's once more interrupted.

"He's a bit of an ass, right?" The young woman comments casually. Beca raises an eyebrow at the comment, because as much of an ass Luke may be, this woman is in no place to be judging him.

The redhead smiles again at her, and Beca's actually angry because really, who the fuck even is this woman who's insulting strangers and grinning at Beca like that's an a-okay thing to do on a Monday morning in a crowded London coffee shop?

Apparently, the redhead can read minds too, because she extends her hand, which Beca eyes suspiciously.

"I'm Chl-"

Beca is incredulous that this woman feels an introduction is necessary. Hell, Beca has absolutely no intention of making friends with _anybody _at this time in the morning, especially rude redheads who distract her away from her coffee. In a moment of desperation her eyes fly to the old-fashioned clock on the wall above the barista, and she realises, _thank god_, that she's late and that she needs to leave.

"I've gotta go"

She's a woman of very little words, and it's an excuse that's lame even to Beca, but before she's even got time to dwell on the fact that she's just rudely interrupted this stranger's attempt at an introduction, her feet have carried her out of the coffee shop into the bustling street. She takes a deep breath of crisp Autumnal air before she's swept up in the flurry of hurried businessmen, the gorgeous red-headed stranger left clutching her latte at the sugar counter instantly pushed to the back of her mind.

* * *

_Notes to editor: _

_- For Beca's style, I'd suggest looking up Emmanuelle Alt. She was my key inspiration, and I think she pulls off the casual street-wear/editor of French Vogue look very well. Up the badass levels a teeny tiny bit and I reckon we've got a wardrobe worthy of Beca Mitchell, DJ-turned-newspaper-editor extraordinaire! _

_- The London Times is a fictitious newspaper that Beca is the editor of. For the intents and purposes of this story, lets just imagine that it's the largest newspaper (circulation wise) in the UK, and that it also offers its editor the highest wage (£1.75m is actually the highest UK editor wage, and its offered by the Daily Mail, so I'm borrowing that figure for this story)_

_- I fucking love working in London, but I also have the world's shortest temper so anyone who walks too slow, bumps into me, or who takes too long ordering a coffee during rush hour is instantly an asshole to me. Something tells me Beca's probably the same, though I promise she's not permanently a miserable bitch, only first thing in the mornings!_

_- Reviews are always gratefully received ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Apologies for the fact its taken like, a million years to update. Work's been taking over my life and I literally haven't had time for creative writing until suddenly last weekend I sat and churned out three whole chapters on the notepad on my iPhone (so much typing - my poor thumbs!) whilst on the train from London to Bournemouth. So, whilst it's taken me more than a month to update, I now have two more complete chapters to upload after this one (I'll still stagger them by a few days) - so plz forgive me!**

**Super huge thanks to everyone who has already read and reviewed the first chapter! I was a bit worried this wouldn't get received too well, so thank you for the [very slight] ego boost! ;)**

* * *

_**Beca**_

The air is crisp and cold, and a stark contrast to the heat that had built up inside of the coffeeshop (she refuses to admit that she may be a little hot under the collar after speaking to a certain gorgeous redhead).

She raises her coffee cup to her lips, and _holy shit_, the taste that she's been anticipating all morning is just as incredible as she'd hoped. She takes another mouthful of coffee, her brain in pure bliss as her cravings are finally satisfied, before she moves to stand with a group of pedestrians waiting for the traffic light to turn.

As she waits, she savours a few more mouthfuls of coffee, allowing the bitter liquid to completely flood her senses, and she's almost on the verge of letting a moan of pure bliss escape from her lips but she manages to hold back.

The Associated Newspapers' building is a minute's walk from the junction, and as she gets closer the crowd thins to reveal only journalists. She nods to a couple, offers a polite smile here and there if she recognises someone but really, there's more than 200 journalists at the paper and they're lucky if she even manages to remember half of their names.

Someone automatically holds the door open for her, and she's swept inside before she can even nod a curt 'thanks' to whomever it was. Inside, the lobby is high ceilinged and modern, all crisp whites and stone greys, and there's not a single person who doesn't look as though they're in a hurry to get somewhere.

Security buzz her through one of the gates without her even having to flash her pass at them, and she's quickly swept up into a crowd as they hurry into an elevator that's just pinged it's way to the ground floor.

Beca's last into the enclosed metal box, and instantly all eyes scatter; dropping to the floor, to the ceiling, to the framed copy of the paper hung on the brushed steel wall, each desperate to avoid eye contact with their editor.

She almost wants to laugh, but she fights it back in preference of wanting to appear professional. She turns around so that she's facing the elevator doors, now shut, a smirk growing on her face at how nervous her reporters still get when they're forced into the same room as her. The respect the staff now have for her is quite a new thing, and it's almost laughable how much things have changed since she's taken over as editor. The struggling London paper, with its slowly dwindling circulation figure and reputation, was in dire need of a revamp just eight months ago (or a firm boot up the ass, as Beca preferred to call it).

Beca Mitchell, editor of the bumbling Daily Echo (and the reasonably popular Muse, Beca's very own start-up music magazine, her one pride and joy) was hardly the leader many were expecting when The London Times' editor of eleven years retired early. Little old 5'2" Beca Mitchell with her measly 10 years of experience under her belt was hardly a worthy contender compared to Luke fucking Benson, London Times' award winning sports editor of seven years and 24/7 pain in Beca's ass. Surprisingly she's offered the job over Luke, and _god_ did the journalists protest to an inexperienced _woman_, of all people, being in charge, but she'd rather quickly seen to that. With her no-nonsense, risk taking attitude and a penchant for delivering the impossible, she's upped circulation figures, UMV's, advertising rates, and female readership numbers, as well as helped to lead the way in the digitalisation of British print media.

She's probably the best thing to happen to this paper, not that she's big headed about it one little bit, and by god does she deserve the respect she gets.

* * *

Her office is on the eighth floor, near the bullpen, and as the elevator doors ping open she's greeted by a chirpy, slightly too provocatively dressed, not that Beca's really complaining, Stacie.

She spares a glance at the clock on the wall, which informs her, miserably, that she's twelve minutes late - something that is practically unheard of for the editor. Stacie raises a questioning eyebrow in a playful manner, which Beca responds to with a grumbled "fucking coffee machine packed in this morning".

Stacie nods understandingly, fully knowing that Beca would be completely unable to function without her morning coffee, before whisking her off down the corridor towards the bullpen, rattling off Beca's diary for the day as they went.

Then 'pen is already alive and bustling with journalists rushing to finish columns before morning briefing, with the constant shrill sound of telephones piercing the air. Beca manages a few small nods to the small number of faces she recognises, only half listening to Stacie as she goes through this morning's press scan, when suddenly there's a flash of red hair in front of her. Beca has to do a double take because there's no way that gorgeous redhead from the coffee shop this morning works here without Beca already knowing about it. She blinks and stares again, and she's right, because it's not the same redhead, and Beca mentally scolds herself for calling that woman 'gorgeous' when she was downright rude and irritating. The redheaded woman in question in the The Times' bullpen is neither gorgeous nor the irritating woman from the coffeeshop this morning, and Beca offers a polite smile in her direction by way of apology for being caught gawping before returning her attention to Stacie.

"... phone call with John to discuss next months' features. And budgeting at ten as usual!" The taller woman finishes brightly, before placing a pile of documents into Beca's outstretched hand. Beca knows even before she's properly glanced at the stack of paperwork that she's going to need another coffee to get her through this, and her mouth almost waters at the thought of having another fix.

"... and here's tomorrow's dummy." Stacie adds as she drops the newspaper mock-up in Beca's hands.

Stacie adds another document to the pile in Beca's arms, topping the stack off with a copy of today's publication, littered with post-it notes. "Anything else I can get you?" She adds as a polite afterthought.

_Coffee!_, Beca's already caffeine-saturated body practically screams.

"Coffee please, black-"

"Black as your soul, got it!" Stacie half salutes her as she finishes off Beca's sentence for her, an in-joke they'd shared soon after Beca first started at the paper and her coffee consumption habits were made aware to her new PA.

Stacie vanishes in pursuit of coffee leaving Beca at her office door, and Beca can't help but smile at how chirpy the taller woman always seems to be first thing in the morning.

As she turns to let herself into her office she promises herself that she'll give Stacie a rise before the month is out.

* * *

**_Chloe_**

Chloe makes an effort to be categorically early for everything, and this morning is no different.

The finishes her coffee in record time, and whilst her mind strays briefly back to the awkward brunette who vanished before Chloe could even ask for her name, she doesn't let herself get distracted. Not this morning, anyway.

It only takes five minutes to walk to the office (Chloe knows this because she did a trial run of the route yesterday afternoon - twice, just to be sure), but she still leaves the coffee shop with plenty of time to spare, wanting to be early for her first day.

The air outside of the coffeeshop is bloody _freezing_, and Chloe tugs her jacket tighter around her body in an attempt to savour some of the warmth from inside Caffe Concerto. She sets off at a brisk walk (_holy crap why did no one tell her how cold England was during the fall?_) down the one street that she recognises to the office. She's still amazed at how _different_ London is to any other city, how vibrant and bustling it is at all hours of the day. And she's fully aware that she's walking slowly and getting in everyone's way, but this city is way too interesting to be able to storm about without sparing a glance at any of the surroundings like so many Londoners appear to do. And wow, a _red London bus_ just trundled past, something that Chloe's only ever seen on postcards and the occasional news segment covering British politics on American television, and she just has to stop and watch it. If she'd had a camera on her she wouldn't have hesitated about snapping a picture of it.

She picks up her pace once again as she turns off into another street, and, _oh my god_, she can already see the office. Chloe can feel her heart rate increasing as she approaches, and even though she's slowed down to a mere dawdle she feels as though she's just run an entire marathon to get here. She stops to catch her breath, mentally preparing herself for the day, because this is the job she's been dreaming of for the past three years and she can't afford to look nervous on her very first day.

She takes a deep breath and a sip of her coffee, allowing the silly smooth sweetness of the milky drink soothe her nerves, before she affixes a determined expression on her face and marches up the front steps to the door.

* * *

The blonde that answers the door and who shows her around is extremely uptight, and everything about her, from her spotless, crisp blazer to her perfect hair set up on top of her head in an immaculate bun, just reeks professionalism.

The blonde takes her on a quick whistle-stop tour of the offices, rattling off client names and awards and the extensive network the agency has built up, so quick that Chloe can barely keep up.

"This is my father's company, but he's rarely about in the office so I've just taken over as managing director..." the blonde states briskly as she shows Chloe where the kitchenette is and motions for her to hang her jacket up on a rack on the wall.

"You'll eventually be taking over my role in one of the teams so that I can focus on management. Obviously because you're new we'll start you off with some junior projects, but you'll work your way up quickly. That's just how it works here."

The blonde's pride at her new management position is clearly evident, though Chloe can't help but bite at her lip, an old nervous habit, and the prospect of being expected to 'work her way up' and take on more senior projects quicker than she'd expected to.

"How about a coffee, then I can introduce you to the rest of the team?" The blonde suggests. Chloe nods, this morning's latte already slipping her mind at the thought of another one. And she's never really been the type to chain coffees, but this is London and that's what everyone here does, or so it seems, so she graciously accepts the steaming mug of liquid from the blonde before she's whisked back around the offices to meet everyone.

The team is small, but Chloe still finds herself chewing at her lip again as she's introduced over and over to the rest of the team. It's all a little overwhelming, really, and although Chloe already loves the company she can't be sure that the company will love her. And as she catches a glimpse of another award sat proudly on a desk she can't help but think she's maybe a little under-qualified, a little too inexperienced for this.

She can feel the blonde watching her, pursing her lips as Chloe greets each member of the team and takes in her surroundings. Once everyone is met, and Chloe's explored the office some more, the blonde takes Chloe's elbow and steers her towards the kitchen where they won't be interrupted.

"Do you know how many people I interviewed for this position?" She questions, perhaps a little harsher than she'd originally intended to.

Chloe recoils slightly, the blonde's aggravated tone surprising her.

"I don't know" she replies, trying to sound as confident as possible, mentally preparing herself for another bitter reply.

"Twenty." The blonde's tone is a little softer now. "And I chose you out of all of those people because _I_ believe you're the best choice for my company. Don't make me regret that choice."

It's not much, but Chloe can tell the other woman isn't usually one for niceties, and they barely even know each other yet, but the pep-talk is just what Chloe needs, and she nods, confidently.

"I won't let you down, Aubrey."

* * *

**Apologies that this may be moving a little slow, but I'm a sucker for wanting to properly set the scene before diving right into the fun stuff. Reviews appreciated, as always! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Super huge thank you to everyone who's read/reviewed so far! Without further ado, I present chapter three...**

* * *

_**Beca**_

Beca grumbles as her alarm shrills loudly in her ear, stretching out her arm and fumbling blindly with the switch to shut it off.

The apartment is eerily silent once her alarm stops its daily _'rise and shine, motherfucker'_ series of screeches, and as Beca flops back onto her queen-sized bed and spares a glance at the vacant other half of the bed, she realises just how fucking _alone _she feels when she's not at work.

It's not that she's not popular - anyone who's anyone in London knows who she is and is vying for her time, but they're journalists and PR's and business marketers, and they're not really the same as having friends, at all. They want to exchange superficial friendship for mere centimetres in her columns; any gifts or pleasantries are merely the foundations for a working relationship. And it fucking sucks, but it's part of the whole 'being editor of the country's biggest paper' package that Beca's undertaken, and nobody except for her highly overpaid therapist understands how miserable it's making her.

With another grumble she throws the sheets off the bed, shocking her body with the sudden lack of warmth and pulling herself up into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. She sits still in the darkness of her bedroom, mentally psyching herself up for the next fourteen hours until she can crawl back into her bed, before standing and padding towards her en suite.

She showers quickly, humming absent-mindedly to herself as she soaped her aching muscles, before wrapping herself in a towel and dragging herself over to her coffee machine with wet hair plastered across her bare shoulders.

She tries prodding a few buttons, even flipping the mains' switch almost hoping that a little jolt of electricity could kickstart the bloody thing back to life, but it's hopeless. With one last exasperated sigh, Beca returns to her bedroom to forage through her wardrobe for something to wear.

* * *

Tuesday appears to be extra cold, and as Beca pulls her thin jacket closer around her body she stubbornly wished she'd chosen something a little warmer for this morning. She's once again swept up in the morning crowd the second she sets foot outside of her building, and she allows herself to be dragged along the pavement by the constant stream of people until she's reached her turning, forcing herself against the flow as she turns and practically dives into Caffe Concerto.

The heat hits her instantly, and, _oh god_, that freshly-ground coffee smell is _heavenly_ and Beca's pretty sure that she won't be able to help it if she suddenly starts drooling on the spot. She's earlier than she was yesterday, and the line she joins at the counter is noticeably smaller this morning, which pleases Beca.

She orders her usual no-nonsense cup of strong black and politely nods at the barista as he sets it down in front of her less than a minute later, before she takes it over to the serving station to grab a lid.

She fumbles with the stack of plastic lids, quietly cursing them under her breath as they all cling together, before she manages to prise one off the stack and affix it to the top of her coffee cup. She raises the cup to her mouth, that delicious caffeinated steam teasing her lips as she's about to take that first, glorious sip of the day when suddenly there's someone tapping at her shoulder.

She turns, and God fucking damn it, if that's Luke wanting to make awkward coffee shop small talk again she's going to forcibly connect her fist with his nose, but it's not Luke.

She's met by a cheery "hi!", and it takes her a couple of seconds to recognise the cute redhead from yesterday.

Beca's caught slightly off guard by the redhead, who's actually initiating conversation for a second time in public, and it takes her a couple of seconds to realise that the young woman is still waiting for some form of greeting or recognition.

"Oh, uh, hello"

If Chloe had even the foggiest idea who she was actually talking to then she'd know that Beca, award-winning journalist-turned-editor, was well known for her exceptional use of words and emotive language. But Chloe, new to this strange, cold country and it's even stranger capital city, is completely unaware. She doesn't know who Beca is, doesn't realise that she's living most PR's dreams by making small-talk in a coffee shop with this woman, so she simply ups the wattage of her smile and makes a mental note that the awkward brunette is not really one for flowing conversations.

"You're here a lot, right?" Chloe casually comments, busying herself with the paper sachets of sugar, giving Beca space to answer in her own time without Chloe's ever-questioning gaze to unnerve her.

Beca frowns slightly, unsure why the redhead is even trying to further this conversation that has already gone way further than Beca's even comfortable with.

"Uh, I guess so..."

_If by 'a lot' she means twice, then yes, Beca's here quite a lot_

The redhead smiles again at Beca's limited use of vocabulary, but she's not put off.

"I'm quite new here," the redhead adds, completely undeterred by Beca's lacking in decent conversation.

"Oh... Really?" Beca nods awkwardly, unsure of how to steer the conversation with the redhead.

"Oh yeah, I moved here from Georgia to take a new job." Chloe brushes it off as if it's the most casual thing in the world, and Beca's taken by surprise because good god, she hasn't been back to Georgia in _years_ now and this stranger in a coffee shop just happens to be from Beca's home state.

"Georgia, huh? That's... That's far" Beca muses, and she internally debates telling Chloe that she's Barden University alumnus, but she stops herself at the last minute because that's really none of the talkative redhead's business, and the chances of her even being from the Barden area are pretty slim anyway.

The redhead practically beams at Beca, and Beca mentally recoils (perhaps five words was too much) when conveniently Luke decides to show his handsome yet unwanted face in the door of the coffeeshop. Beca accidentally makes eye contact with him over the redhead's shoulder, and she hurriedly mutters her second "I've gotta go" before weaving her way past the other woman, beelining for the door.

Luke makes as though he's about to stop Beca and engage her in another one of his terrifically dull conversations about work, but she expertly dodges him and marches out of the door, coffee in hand, before he can even utter the first syllable of her name.

* * *

_**Chloe**_

Chloe sips her lukewarm latte and surveys the scene between the two.

Impatient asshole who grumbled at Chloe on Monday morning clearly knows the cute brunette with the limited vocabulary, not that the other woman seems particularly pleased with this. Chloe chalks it down to an old relationship, which probably ended on mutually bitter terms. They'd make an odd couple; attractive, but odd.

Impatient asshole (_with the totally cute ex-girlfriend_, Chloe's subconscious helpfully pipes up) glares at Chloe as she brushes past him on her way out. She flashes another award-winning smile in his direction, internally laughing as his face flushes an angry shade of red at her antics, before she slips out into the chilly city.

Her eyes scan briefly along the pavement, searching for the young brunette woman, but she's probably already at work, wherever that may be. With another sip of her latte she's off, stumbling through the stream of jostling commuters towards her offices.

* * *

Chloe suspects Aubrey has been waiting for her in the lobby of the offices, because the second she's through the door the blonde woman pounces.

The blonde steers her towards her desk where she shrugs off her coat and bag, and then she's taken back into the little kitchenette where the kettle is already brewing.

"Tea or coffee?" Aubrey questions, bustling about with mugs and teaspoons and a pot of sugar.

Chloe doesn't really have the heart to tell her she's just downed nearly a pint of coffee and that she's probably all set for caffeine for the rest of the day, and so she opts for another coffee, already knowing that she's going to be practically bouncing off the walls come lunchtime.

A few seconds later Aubrey presents the mug to Chloe, then directs them over to the little array of bar stools set up against the counter.

"I want to discuss your workload for the week," Aubrey announces as they sit down, and Chloe suddenly notices the notebook and printed timetable the blonde already has prepared for her.

Chloe nods, and takes a sip from her mug of coffee, mentally reminding herself to never let Aubrey make her coffee ever again. Aubrey clearly notices Chloe's face scrunch up at the nasty aftertaste and laughs.

"Tastes like dirt, right?" The blonde admits, clearly aware of the fact she makes awful coffee.

Chloe laughs, relieved that she doesn't appear to be insulted. "Yeah, sorry, I've had better" she admits, trying not to sound too rude.

Aubrey waves a hand absentmindedly. "I can't make coffee to save my life. Tea, on the other hand, I'm an expert." The blonde punctuates her words with a small wink, and Chloe can clearly detect the pride in the blonde's voice,

"I haven't decided whether I like tea or not" Chloe admits with a warm smile and another sip of her coffee which, yup, still tastes faintly like dirt.

Aubrey laughs again, and Chloe can't really believe that this laughing, joking, almost _flirting_ Aubrey is the same as the sharp and upright Aubrey who showed her around yesterday.

"Whatever your drink, you'll be having a lot of it in this industry I'm afraid. Consider it one of the bare necessities in PR" the blonde adds.

Chloe nods. She's perfectly happy with consuming copious amounts of coffee, so long as Aubrey isn't allowed anywhere near it. In fact, she's perfectly happy with even more of an excuse to visit that coffeeshop just around the corner, or rather, she's perfectly happy with even more of an excuse to see the awkward yet drop dead gorgeous brunette again.

Aubrey takes another sip of her tea, then, with a brief re-shuffle of her papers she's back to professionalism, her relaxed smile instantly replaced with a neutral expression.

"I'm going to start you off with some writing this week. We have a few releases, and a few bits of ad copy, that need to go out by the end of this week so I thought it would be good for you to write them. Then if you're feeling brave you can sell them in to regionals and nationals on Friday - it's just standard intern stuff, but I think it's good experience for you anyway!"

Chloe grins, a slightly over-excited "I can't wait!" escaping from her mouth, to which Aubrey responds with a small, yet warm smile, before taking another sip of her tea.

Aubrey nods at Chloe's half-finished cup of barely-drinkable coffee, a small smirk gracing her lips.

"You'll probably quite like this client I'm assigning you to."

* * *

**Again, totally aware this is still moving a bit slow - I promise it does pick up a lot more later! As always, let me know what you lovely lot think :)  
**


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